Into the Fire
by Sassirin
Summary: The thing about these games was that it was all about the survival of the fittest. If you can't take the heat, then get out of the kitchen. If you have to stay, then try and get out with as little as a first-degree burn. Getting out alive is a wasted dream that Jean knew full-well. Lucky for him, Marco Bodt from Panem's Capitol, helps him anytime he gets hurt and burned.


**Prologue**

_Getting Burned_

* * *

The first step Jean took after they called his name had no thunder to it.

There was just nothing; it was soundless and mute — no glory, no high choir singing his name and hoping for his victory. No one clapped, no one whispered; they just stared at his back while he walked through the crowd of males, chin high and even silent to himself.

He wouldn't have pegged them as being unsupportive or uncaring; neither would he have called them as being unfaithful in his survival. After all, some people in the district knew of him to some extent, knew that he was pretty capable in terms of strength and a little in skill.

The reason, though, why no one responded was because it was a hazy thing to do. Clapping and wishing for the best of luck meant the expectation that a tribute would win. Whispering meant that everyone could guess that there a tribute had a fifty-fifty chance between dying or winning in the games.

Silence just meant that no one knew what to expect and didn't want to expect because there's always the high chance of it being jinxed and going downhill.

The fact that he heard no thunder in his steps, no triumphant horn blowing as he walked up to the stage, made him upset and let everything sink in horribly. There was no way of telling.

This alone was just painful and infuriating, because though the soundlessness in his steps told him nothing of what to expect, it still clearly told him of one thing — that he just might not win.

Oh well.

Jean guessed that it was at least better than hearing the death toll.

* * *

"_Help me, please! It burns!_"

A girl was on fire right in front of him; she was engulfed in flames that were so bright and somehow magnificent that it was hard to stomach the reality that she really burning death.

Jean watched with bated breath, his eyes wide and jaw set, as she shrieked so high that it almost took out his eardrums. The girl had ran to him, the only one in plain sight and the only one she knew in these games of horror, begging, desperate. But he just sat there, just slowly attempting to crawl away and avoid getting caught on fire with a hard gulp in his throat.

"I can't," was all he said, his voice hoarse and croaked as he backed away some more.

The girl opened her mouth and let out a soundless scream—a silent cry for help—before she then fell to the ground a moment after like a rock, a large thud sounding off from her fall with a slight crisp to its tone. All that was then left in front of him was the sight of her corpse, still enflamed and burning like it was the most idle thing to do, flickering around.

A stunned breath escaped his lips as Jean finally remembered he had legs and pushed himself to stand, albeit shakily and a tremble to his knees. And then he ran, dashed off in another direction opposite from the girl's corpse without any idea of where he was going.

He felt sick to his stomach, disgusted with his own self.

Jean knew that girl; he knew her from the day she was born. The girl was about three years younger than he was—only having turned fifteen a few months before the reaping. She was born and raised about two houses down from his home, and he remembered always seeing her playing with her friends when she was ten years old and he was thirteen, just starting to do the more strenuous field work.

There was no doubt that the cameras all had panned onto him at this point, highlighting how he'd just so obviously denied helping a girl—someone from his own district. Her parents most likely saw what he'd done; they were probably sickened by him, maybe everyone from his home was betrayed by him. The girl's mother must be bawling her eyes out, cursing his name for leaving her daughter to die like that. Maybe everyone was calling him cruel and heartless, pegging him as some ruthless warrior that thought of nothing but winning.

_But there was no use in helping her!_ Jean screamed to himself as he ran, blind to everything. _No use! She was going to die anyways!_

The girl's chances for survival were obvious from the start; since the day her name was called for reaping, since she was plagued to do the lesser field work back home, since the day she was born. She was lanky and skinny like a twig; most of the girls that did any real hard labor in the forests of District 7 needed more muscles and stamina than she had. There was no way she was going to win, much less survive.

It was all _so_ obvious. There was nothing he could have done for her.

Jean stumbled on his feet and fell, rolling onto the ground and colliding against the base of a tree. He pushed himself onto his knees and elbows, head dipped low as he thought about her, about how he left her to die.

"_Guh_." He took a sharp breath, his eyes closed shut. His fist pounded against the ground. "_Shit!_ What did I just do?!" And he sobbed, choking on his tears.

Around him, the fire was spreading faster and the smoke was getting thicker. A burning branch suddenly crashed from above and that was all it took for Jean to realize that he wasn't in the common forest fires like back home—he was still in the Hunger Games. The gamemakers were intending for another one to go down, another one to get burned—and that one was going to be him if he didn't get himself out of there fast.

"Get out of here," Jean grounded out, struggling to get to his feet. There were still tears in his eyes as he planked one foot down and the other one after, his hand holding onto the tree trunk to himself get up. "Gotta get out."

After living in a district where forest fires was like a backyard, Jean knew then his first mistake—running further into a burning forest rather than out. Karma surely got him there; it was probably mad for abandoning the girl.

The smoke was getting to him, forcing his senses, his strength, his energy, and his will to break apart and go numb. Things were spinning; trees were multiplying and all he was starting to see was nothing but smoke.

_Damnit!_ Jean cursed at himself. He should know the forest like it was the back of his hand.

But he was getting dizzy and weak, so weak that his knees finally caved and he found himself slinking down the tree trunk slowly, his nails scratching against the bark. He pushed himself into a seated position, body starting to go limp as he leaned against the trunk.

He gasped, lungs burning for any remnants of fresh, clean air — but it was all in vain.

"Hah," he breathed, letting more poisonous fumes into lungs as if he were greedy. His vision was running awry and he felt himself getting light-headed.

As someone from District 7, Jean knew forest fires well, and all his mind could tell him was that this was no ordinary fire. The gamemakers had done well; it's been a long time since he's seen a fire like this.

The fire roared and blasted out strongly, radiating hotly to his skin and making him feel like he was melting.

Maybe this was it. Maybe he should just stop here. It wasn't as if he expected himself to win anyways. His heart screamed for him to scramble out of there, for him to use whatever senses that hadn't numbed to get out of there. But there was just no use in it.

Getting out of there was asking for too much. It should be shameful of him to ask for help when he hadn't even budged for the girl.

And yet, expectations were never something that sat well with him in the first place—not for when he was first reaped, not for when people voiced out their opinions on who'd knock out first in the games, not for when alliances were being made in front of him, left to right. There was just nothing much to expect from an average guy that placed sixth on polls guessing on the most likeliest to win.

But there it was—floating down through the dark, thick smoke like some sort of beacon of hope, idle in its path. A small, blinking light was attached to it, just purposely trying to get Jean's attention. Maybe it was all the smoke—all the fumes—getting to him but he was starting to feel giddy.

The gift was nowhere near anything that his mentor could afford, nor was it something that his mentor would have outright done for him. But the sight of it was so god-send, Jean almost believed that it was a literal gift from heaven.

The moment his eyes laid on it—on this small gift wrapped in a bright red and guided with a blinking light—he rushed forward for it just as fast as the wildfire had started, sudden and unsuspecting. It was almost as if his senses had gone back from the dead and were miraculously pushed into high gear, forcing his legs, his body, to run for the gift because his life depended on it.

Jean was still running when the box fell into his hands, the senses in his legs going haywire and crazy. His fingers barely touched the surface before he ripped the top of it open to find a gas mask sitting inside. Along with it, there was a note sitting on the side that told him nothing else but 'please don't die.'

The message registered only for a second as Jean grabbed and shoved the gas mask against face, finding delight that it was no ordinary gas mask.

_Is it seriously pumping in fresh air?!_ Jean felt more than just giddy; at another point, he would probably wondered if it was actually laughing gas or something else that him feel like he was flying.

Whatever it was, all Jean knew was that his lungs liked it.

The first breath he had taken was safe and free but he had only little time to dwell in it as another falling branch nearly squashed him, coming out of nowhere and out of random. The gamemakers probably weren't too happy with his gift but Jean didn't give a shit about that, somehow finding a new hope in himself and letting go of any remorse.

He ran; he ran like a young deer caught in headlights out of the burning forest for a clearer open. His feet crunched over burnt branches and twigs, trampled over dead flowers as he rushed away from the fire. There had to be a way out.

That quest was answered as he found suddenly himself barreling forward down a hill and crashing through thickets and bushes. He rolled down the hill unceremoniously, making him brace for impact while protecting the gas mask on his face.

As soon as his body found flat land, Jean hadn't bothered to stop, immediately stomping back onto his feet and continuing to running away as far from the forest fire as his legs could help it. He saw nothing and stopped for nothing, not for the boy from District 12 that was only twelve years old, neither for the career that tries to promise him things as she shrieked in horror at her burning flesh. He was blind to everything else but forward—running for victory, survival, freedom, and nothing else.

It almost seemed like forever had past as Jean eventually ended up at a small hidden. The forest fire should have been far from him—at least, that's what he hoped. The gamemakers got other victims; it would do him a favor if they could just back off his for now.

As Jean trudged to the creek, he hadn't even bothered to check his surroundings, soon diving into the water and reveling in its cold rush against his first-degree burns.

His legs were aching and his lungs were still on fire as he settled against the creek's bank.

However, things didn't end for him there.

Another surprise took him like a storm as the sky cleared with a new present in its wake. It was a little bigger this time and a bright orange too. Jean scoffed at the guy's color sense as the box landed directly into his arms; people from the capital had a crazy sense of style and color coordination, that's for sure.

This time, Jean opened the box carefully, taking its top off and reaching for the expected note inside. He read it with a raised eyebrow.

'_I'm glad you made it! You nearly gave me a heart-attack there, Jean! Please keep on fighting! I really want you to win! – Marco'_

Jean rolled his eyes and shook his head despite knowing full-well that 'Marco' was watching him. This was a joke, right? There was no way a guy from the capital—much less anyone, in fact—was actually cheering for him. Even his own District wasn't completely on his side; and he surely made everyone's opinions of him plummet farther than it already was.

Jean looked inside the box and was genuinely shocked to find a loaf of bread inside, one slathered with a jam spread specifically made from the fruit from his district. He took one bite from it and it was as if his senses were rejuvenated like a snap.

It was delicious!

Jean got himself further onto drier land, resting himself on his back against a large tree root. The sandwich was more than just delicious; it made him a little bit less tired from everything that's happened. That wasn't such a bad feeling.

However, as the day came to an end, Jean as he was forced to watch the night sky suddenly light up and parade out more than a few faces across—all the deaths done for the day. He chewed on the loaf regretfully once he saw the face of the girl from his own district appear, remembering for a moment how her flesh burned by the fire. And then he swallowed hard, a slight taste of regret left on his tongue as the image of her replayed in his thoughts.

_Damnit_. Jean gritted his teeth, biting down harshly onto the bread and chewing roughly.

There was nothing left for him. He couldn't understand why he made it out alive. He should've died in that fire. Everyone caught in it was expected to die, not come out with just a few burns. No one was expecting him to still be alive at this point, not even himself.

Jean blinked in surprise at the sky. Another gift was coming down to him—this time, a yellow so bright that it hurt his eyes. He let it land into his arms again and he looked curiously inside, reaching for the note.

After he finished reading, he laughed. He found himself laughing so loud that it echoed into the night. It almost didn't occur to him that he just about gave away his place.

Maybe everyone else—opposing tributes, people from the Capitol, his mentor, his District—had no real expectations in him or even believed that he would live, but this guy did. Marco had hope in him. Marco was cheering for him. Marco believed in him.

Throughout the entire nation of Panem, everyone muddled and watched in curiosity when Jean had suddenly laughed out hysterically. The cameras panned in towards the note, trying to get an eye of what it contained, but Jean clenched it and shoved it into a pocket, away from sneaking eyes. Everyone only wondered what was in the note that Jean received and why it was so funny that it made him laugh in the middle of a game between life and death.

* * *

'_Jean, here's some of the best cream for your burns! It looks like those hurt a lot! There's an inhaler too just in case you need it! Stay strong! - Marco_'

* * *

**Fin.**


End file.
